


Eight Days of Wincest

by sowell



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Eight Days Of Wincest, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-30
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 18:51:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 1,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1110315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sowell/pseuds/sowell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eight unrelated ficlets written for the Eight Days of Wincest challenge at samdean_otp on livejournal.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day One

There’s a moment when Sam’s hips are pressed flush to Dean’s, when Dean’s hands fist on Sam’s back and Sam’s fingers dig into Dean’s skin and Dean shudders and bares his throat, that Sam thinks  _oh_. The punched-out noise that Dean makes squeezes fiercely around Sam’s chest, and he thinks about what he could do to Dean, all the little ways he could destroy his brother. Dean feels solid as a rock, but he’s as raw as his sandpaper voice. He only ever unfolds himself for Sam when Sam’s already inside him, there’s no place to hide.  
  
Sam scrapes his teeth across Dean’s stubbled jaw, and Dean’s eyes drift open. “We’re gonna be okay,” Sam whispers, close enough to feel the brush of Dean’s eyelashes. “ _I’m_  gonna be okay.”  
  
Dean exhales slowly, and his eyes close again. “Yeah,” he says, thick with sex and sleep. “We’re both gonna be fine.”


	2. Day Two

Dean finds the acceptance letter slotted away between the pages of one of Sam’s textbooks. Sam’s a cagey little fucker, but Dean knows all his tells. The letter has been creased and folded, read over and over again until the paper is soft like cloth. Sam’s face is a lie all the time now, smooth and unconcerned when Dean knows he’s already packed and gone in his mind.  
  
“Would you - ” Sam asks one night, then cuts himself off. Dean looks, and he’s running nervous fingers over the letter in front of him, over the ink and paper that’s going to steal him forever.  
  
 _Ask me_ , Dean thinks.  _Don’t fucking hide yourself from me. Tell me._  
  
“Say I took a trip after I graduate,” Sam tries again. “If I went away. Would you…I mean…”  
  
“What?” Dean asks roughly.  
  
Sam swallows, shakes his head and looks away. “Never mind.”


	3. Day Three

Dean learned to light up a ghost at age eight, drop a werewolf at age eleven, and exorcise at demon by age fifteen. Sometimes he thinks there isn’t an evil he hasn’t faced. But Sam hasn’t left his bed since Dean dragged him back to the bunker after the third trial, and all the rock salt in the world can’t fix it. Sam can barely keep himself upright most of the time, and the dark circles under his eyes are starting to swallow his pupils until his whole face looks like two empty sockets.  
  
Dean hasn’t managed an apology yet, but Sam is still smiling at him anyway, in between bouts of vomiting blood. The only thing he’s managed to keep down is, miraculously, a few spoonfuls of the orange-powder mac ‘n cheese Dean dug out of the pantry last night.  
  
He went to the local mini-mart and bought the whole shelf at three in the morning, and butter and milk as well. Sam eats it, slowly and painfully, but he keeps it down. Dean’s not a healer – he’s never managed to save Sam without losing himself in the process, and there’s not a single angel or demon left that owes the Winchesters any favors.  
  
So Dean makes mac ‘n cheese. He watches the bites disappear into Sam’s mouth until Sam gives him a faint look of annoyance. Dean makes some quip, some joke that makes Sam’s mouth twitch, and then he walks back down the stairs. He rips his way through books and websites and anything that might teach him how to fight this new enemy. In the meantime, he makes mac ‘n cheese, and waits for the next meal time, and knows that at least for a few minutes, he can make things right.


	4. Day Four

Sam was seventeen when he pushed Dean up against the old oak tree behind the high school baseball diamond and shoved their lips together. It was shitty timing; Dean was pissed that Dad had left him behind on the most recent job, and Sam hadn’t managed to make a single friend at the newest school. There was only Dean, and Dean’s fierce scowl, and a sea of hostile strangers in the cafeteria.  
  
Not even soccer helped. He missed shots, he carried when he should have passed, and his stupid, long legs kept tripping him up, making him slow and clumsy when he used to be quick and agile. He was ready to walk off the field, straight to the motel and into bed and refuse to crawl out until Dad came back, and then there was Dean, familiar and grim, touched white gold under the September sun.  
  
Sam kissed him then, pushed him back until the both stopped short against the solid tree, and it took ten whole seconds before Dean grabbed his arms and shoved him back.  
  
“What. The fuck. Sam,” he spat. “Are you nuts?”  
  
 _And if I were_ , Sam thought, shaking and angry, terrified and buoyant,  _who would care besides you?_  
  
He kissed Dean again, hard enough that his teeth cut the inside of his lip. Dean grappled with his elbows for a second, strong enough to push Sam away if he really wanted to.  _If he wanted to, he’d stop it_ , Sam thought, and they kept kissing under the sinking sun.


	5. Day Five

“I’m gonna miss the shower,” Dean says. “When we go. The shower is awesome.”  
  
“Mmmm,” Sam says.  
  
“And real coffee every morning. Not like the usual motel crap.”  
  
“Yup.”  
  
“And it’s not like either of us can cook, or anything. But the kitchen…”  
  
“The kitchen’s nice,” Sam admits.  
  
“It’s kind of like when Dad used to drop us at Bobby’s,” Dean continues, mouth quirked in a smile. “I used to think it was so weird that he just…stayed. That he didn’t move around like Dad. But it wasn’t bad, sleeping in a real bed.”  
  
Sam thinks of Dean’s thousand-dollar mattress, of the meticulous arrangement of weapons on his wall, of the gentle way he brushes the edge of Mom’s photo every day.  
  
“You know,” he offers. “We don’t  _have_  to go.”  
  
He sees Dean swallow. “Sure. Not right now.”  
  
Not ever, Sam thinks. Not this time. Not if he can help it.  
  
“Right,” he says, and smiles faintly. “Not right now.”


	6. Day Six

After they leave Stanford, Dean gets Sam drunk on the hood of the Impala three nights in a row. They chase tequila with whiskey, then finish the night off with cans of beer, drained and stored for target practice later.  
  
Sam has nothing like peace on his face, but after the fourth shot or so his eyes go dreamy and unfocused, and he folds out on the broad black slope to stare up at the stars. Dean doesn’t know if he’s thinking of Jessica or Mom or the colossal tragedy that’s just been made of his life. He only knows that the alcohol and the sky make the wild grief in Sam’s eyes lessen for a few scant hours.  
  
And Dean…Dean barely needs the booze. He’s drunk off Sam, his grown-up face and little boy smile and newly broad shoulders. He can barely stop looking at the lines of Sam’s body, of the effortless way the Impala supports him like Dean knows,  _knows_ , it was always meant to. Sam’s girlfriend is dead, and Sam’s life is gone, and Dean can barely taste the edge of his own guilt under the endless pulses of joy.  
  
He leans over, and puts his hand flat next to Sam’s head, and Sam closes his eyes.  
  
“What the fuck am I gonna do?” Sam slurs, and he sobs when Dean kisses him.


	7. Day Seven

Sam keeps a running list of embarrassing facts about Dean, in case he ever needs them. At the top are Dean’s secret collection of soft rock ballads, the time Cindy Mason left Dean handcuffed to the bed in tube socks and nothing else, and those three weeks that Dean took up the flute in sixth grade. He shared the tube sock story with Jo and Ellen once and got to watch Dean blush from his collarbone to the tips of his ears.  
  
He has a second list of unmentionables: Dean half dead at Alastair’s feet, the way Dean’s throat bruised under Sam’s hands before Sam set Lucifer free and fucked everything up, the blank, carved-out look on Dean’s face when Sam said  _Stanford_ and Dad said  _leave_. He hasn’t used that list for years. The brief surge of satisfaction is never worth the fallout.  
  
Besides, he’s pretty sure Dean is keeping his own tallies. Good brother tallies. Loyal son tallies. Save the world tallies.  
  
They both keep score, but Sam always has the feeling he’s already lost.


	8. Day Eight

In the end, they don’t leave much of a legacy behind. Sam carefully labels and catalogs all of Chuck’s books, and Dean slides John’s journal into place on the shelf. They turn the key to the bunker over to Garth and head west.  
  
Dean wants to settle in San Diego and Sam wants to see Seattle, so they compromise in the form of Oregon. Dean grumbles about the suburbs, but Sam’s pretty sure he’s in a secret competition with their neighbors to see who can grow the greenest lawn. There’s a town library, and Sam talks his way into a job with fake credentials and an easy smile. Garth is the only one in the world who knows where to find them, and he mostly leaves them alone.  
  
There are still angels and demons and ghosts and monsters, and sometimes Sam wonders if that’s their fault, if they failed. But Dean slides into bed next to him every night, finds his wrist in the dark and holds on, and Sam can’t help but feel like they must have done something right.


End file.
